


An Afternoon Spent With Snowflakes

by irisqod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:58:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisqod/pseuds/irisqod





	An Afternoon Spent With Snowflakes

The brothers stood looking out the big windows in the family library. The landscape was covered in white.

 

“They’re all different you know.”

 

“What are, My?” Sherlock looked up at his older brother, curiosity in his pale eyes.

 

“The snowflakes, ‘Lock. There are no two exactly alike.”

 

Mycroft knew what would come next. Sherlock would have to see if his big brother was having him on or not. The snow was falling slowly, the flakes drifting to the earth in lazy swirling trails.

 

It was almost Christmas. Mycroft was 13. Sherlock would be 6 in three weeks.

 

“Really?” Mycroft could see the wheels in his brother’s mind start to turn. “No two are the same?”

 

“Its true.” Mycroft crossed his arms as if to say ‘prove me wrong.’

 

“I have to see. I’m going to investigate!” That was Sherlock’s favorite word of late and he used it whenever he could. “Come _on_ My, the game is on!” and Sherlock bounded out of the library to get bundled up to go outside.

 

Mycroft followed him up the stairs and passed their mother on her way down.

 

“Wherever is Sherlock off to in such a hurry?” she asked.

 

“I told him all the snowflakes are different.”

 

“Oh, Mycroft, you didn’t!” She sounded peeved. Marguerite Holmes knew her youngest well enough by now to know he’d be out there for the rest of the day trying to find two matching flakes in the endless white expanse covering the Holmes family estate.

 

“ _You_ are going with him. You are his _older_ brother and you need to look out for him.” Her stare gave Mycroft no quarter. He knew he had to go. He nodded. “There’s a good boy,” Marguerite kissed Mycroft’s cheek and continued down the stairs.

 

“Mycroft! Where _are_ you? Are you coming?” Sherlock was shouting from his room while pulling on his woolies to go out in the snow.

 

Dejectedly, Mycroft trudged up the stairs, “Yes, ‘Lock I coming. Mummy says I _have_ to.” Secretly he was hoping to send Sherlock off on a wild goose chase so he could have the afternoon to himself. Sherlock could be a pest.

 

Five minutes later and they were both out the kitchen door, Sherlock in the lead.

 

“Where should we look first, do you think My?” As independent as he was already, he still looked to Mycroft for advice.

 

“This is your investigation, I’m just here to assist,” he replied and under his breath he added, “and to keep Mummy happy.”

 

“Right. Let’s try the tree line first, the snow cover is lightest under the trees and it will be easier to see individible flakes there.”

 

“I think you meant _individual_ flakes.” He was amazed by his brother’s vocabulary and thought to himself, _someday that mouth will get him in trouble._ “Lead on, Sherlock, I’m right behind you.”

 

The boys spent the afternoon searching under trees, on fence posts, on the tops of fallen logs and even in each other’s hair and eyelashes for matching snowflakes.

 

Mycroft finally said, “Do you believe me now? Can we give up and go inside? I’m frozen.” He’d had fun in spite of himself. He loved his brother and loved to watch him learn about how things worked.

 

“Yes, I believe you. They are all different. They are all _in-di-vi-dual._ ” He beamed at his older brother and Mycroft smiled in return. They went back to the house pink-cheeked and shivering but happy in each other’s company.

 

It wasn’t always like that between the Holmes brothers. Years later, Mycroft would think of that day spent in the snow with Sherlock and he would feel both happy and sad.

 

Happiness in the memory of a little boy’s joy of discovery and enthusiasm to learn.

 

Sadness in the realization that like the snowflakes, Sherlock was singular. Sherlock’s mind was rare and clear. Beautiful in its starkness, but like snowflakes, cold.

 

And like the snowflakes, all too fleeting and temporary.

 


End file.
